weeij/m/. 


LIBRARY 

OK  Till-: 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

(  V  I  KT  OK 


^eceivcii 

Accessions  No., 


JAN  1895 
Clats 


A  Souvenir  of  Mount  Tamalpais. 


£&- 


— - 


, --       i        1*11  i    .   r.>.     i    , ^^ i_, L 


All  rights  reserved, 
GOLDEN    KRA   COMPANY 


A  Souvenir  of  Mt.  Tamalpais. 

Tamalpais Madge  Morris 

The  Wine  of  the  Winds A  dele  B.  Carter 

Mt.  Tamalpais  (View  from  the  city  at  Sunset)  Ella  Sterling  Cumin  ins- 

A  Trip  to  the  Top Harr  Wagner 

Up  and  Down No  Poet 

A  Sordid  View Tlieodore    Wilson 

San  Rafael //.   W. 

A  Legend  of  Tamalpais Madge  Morris 


Tamalpais, 


OWERING  up  from  the  water, 

From  the  ranks  of  the  hills  out-hurled, 
Standing  the  furthest  sentry 

In  the  line  of  the  Western  world. 
And  the  psalm  of  the  sea  is  blended 
With  the  winds  that  around  him  fly, 
And  the  sinking  sunset  robes  him 
In  its  misty  purpling  dye — 
And  the  ships  of  the  world  go  by. 

Madge  Morris. 


Mount    Tamaipais* 


[From  the  City  at  Sunset.] 


)  OME  of  the  elements — where  battling  bands 

Of  clouds  and  winds  the  rocks  defy— 
Mute,  yet  great,  old  Tamalpais  stands 

Outlined  against  the  rosy  sky. 
His  darkened  form  uprising  there  commands 
The  country  round,  and  every  eye 
From  lesser  hills  he  strangely  seems  to  draw, 
With  the  lifted  glance  that  speaks  of  wonder  and  of  awe. 

It  is  the  awe  that  makes  us  reverence  show 

To  men  of  might,  who  proudly  tower 
Above  their  fellowmen  ;   the  glance  that  we  bestow 

On  one  whose  native  force  and  power, 
Have  lifted  him  beyond  the  race  below — 

The  pigmy  mortals  of  the  hour — 
We  almost  bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  head, 
To  the  mighty  force  that  marks  his  kingly  tread. 

And  gazing  on  old  Tamalpais,  dark 

And  grand  in  all  his  stately  guise — 
His  head  among  the  clouds— a  hierarch 

Of  hills — we  envy  him  the  size 


Of  greatness,  fame  and  glory's  mark, 

When  there  appears  before  our  eyes, 
Beneath  the  grandeur  of  his  royal  crest, 
That  deep-graved  scar  upon  his  weary  breast. 
The  nightwinds  steal  upon  us  from  the  sea, 

The  fogs  roll  in  like  forms  of  white, 

The  Mountain  slowly  fades  from  sight, 
The  careless  Heart  breaks  into  jubilee. 

Then,  why,  O  Heart,  desire  to  carve  a  lofty  name? 

Remember  still  the  scars,  as  well  as  joys,  of  Fame. 

The  sparks  of  lamplight  leap  from  hill  to  hill- 
One  brilliant  star  comes  trembling  forth, 
A  cold  wind  blows  from  out  the  North, 

The  careless  Heart  rejoices  still. 

Then,  why,  O  Heart,  desire  to  feel  the  dazzling  flame? 
Remember  still  the  scars,  as  well  as  joys,  of  Fame. 

O  Tamalpais  !  Mount  of  Eloquence  ! 

Gazing  on  us  from  afar, 
What  gift  gives  Fame  as  recompense, 

For  wearing  of  that  deep-graved  scar  ? 

Ella  Sterling  Cummins. 


The  Wine  of  the  Wind, 


up  in  the  mountain  above  the  tall  trees, 
Where  clouds  yield  their  sarcenet  sails  to  the 

breeze, — 
Robed  spirits  eclipsing  the  sun  with  their  lace, 

And  flitting  faint  shadows  soft  over  our  face— 

We  stand  as  we  quaff  of  the  rarest  of  wine, 

Expressed  from  the  fir,  manzanita  and  pine. 

The  wind  in  the  gorges  deep  steadily  hums, 

Compounding  his  nectar  of  balm  and  of  gums  ; 

And  roiling  his  wine-vats  dark  foliate  caves, 


The  must  in  light  liquid  incessantly  laves, 

Around  through  the  stems  and  the  leaves  and  pine  sheathes, 

To  catch  an  aroma  wherever  it  breathes. 

Then  waving  the  chapeau,  the  tips  of  the  trees, 

He  wafts  us  the  bouquet  from  under  the  lees. 

With  such  lightness  and  brightness  all  bubbling  o'er, 

No  wine  e'er  affected  our  spirits  before. 

We  climb  through  the  clouds  and  we  leave  the  tall  trees, 

But  the  wine  ever  follows  along  on  the  breeze. 

A  (Me  />.  Carter 


A    Trip  to  the   Top. 


CHAPKRON, 


POETS, 


ROSE  is  lonesome  in  the  presence  of  poetry. 
The  atmosphere  that  circles  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Tamalpais  is  laden  with  the  tonic  which  gives  the 
poet  inspiration.  Up  from  the  waters,  across  the 
vine  clad  hills  and  valleys,  speeds  to  a  meeting  the 
hushed  music  of  the  winds,  the  psalm  of  nature. 

The  heart  of  the  poet  is  light,  the  foot  of  the  poet  is  free, 
and  even  the  children — the  blossoms,  measured  their  tread  in 
iambics.  I  jogged  along  in  prose.  The  poets  on  account  of 
the  exuberance  of  my  animal  spirits,  loaded  me  down  with 
cloaks  and  wraps,  with  food  and  drink,  and  with  things 
the  poets  love  when  shadowed  from  the  public  eye.  So  sol 
emn  and  calm  is  the  mood  that  Nature  brings  to  the  mind 
given  to  versification,  that  an  attempt  to  be  amusing  is  like 
jesting  in  the  temple  of  the  Lord.  The  trip  began  in  an  anthem 
of  praise,  continued  as  a  chorus,  and  ended  in  a  jubilee. 


PERSONNEL: 

J.  T.  C. 
M.  M. 

BLOSSOMS, 

Sterling. 
A.  B.  C. 
C.  T.  U. 

GUIDE, 

{  P.  M. 
/G.  C. 

Myself. 


We  crossed  meadows  where  flowers  bloom  at  night  ;  over 
bridges  that  span  creeks,  fed  and  starved  by  winter's  rain  and 
summer's  drouth  ;  through  gardens  of  flowers  that  hcdded  to 
us  in  solemn  beauty  permission  to  pass,  and  perfumed  the 
way  clear  down  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain  trail.  The  chil 
dren  loitered  by  the  way  to  weave  round  their  fingers  the  silken 
thread  that  the  gossamer  spider  hangs  on  blades  of  grass.  The 
poets  paused  to  peer  up  through  the  trees  that  are  short,  thick 
and  shadowy.  They  admire  the  tints  that  break  out  here  and 
there  in  splendor,  and  are  interested  in  the  fungi  that  spring 
up  of  every  size  and  hue,  from  slender  scarlet  on  the 
decaying  log  to  the  bold  toad-stool  which  the  children 
call  "the  lunch  table  for  the  fairies  of  the  mountain."  In 
a  short  while,  the  crooked  and  shadowy  aisle  that  leads  towards 
the  top  was  reached.  A  deer  sped  across  the  trail.  It  called 
forth  a  feminine  scream  of  delight,  which  so  pleased  Nature 


that  the  distant  hills  in  an  animating  voice  echoed  an  encore. 
A  mountain  bird  with  golden  throat,  bathing  in  the  dust,  gave 
a  welcome  note,  then  flew  away. 

The  "  march  of  intellect  "  went  on.  Tall  Tree  Station,  dis 
tant  one  thousand  yards  from  the  starting  point,  was  reached 
by  all.  Here  is  the  first  open  view  from  the  mountain. 

';  How  beautiful !"  excHmed  one  of  the  poets.  "Yonder  is 
the  cross  of  Lone  Mountain,  nearer  is  the  bay,  white-flagged 
with  sails.  Down  yonder  is  the  garden  of  flowers,  the  mead 
ows  and  cattle  ;  to  the  right,  and  beyond,  are  the  hills  and  for 
est  of  Marin  ;  and  above  us  towers  the  pyramid  of  other  ages, 
old  Tamalpais.'' 

"Oh,  let  us  have  lunch,"  said  our  chaperon.  The 
feast  was  spread  on  the  shadow  of  the  tall  tree.  I  was 
no  longer  lonesome.  Poets  are  jolly  company  at  lunch — 
like  the  rest  of  us  they  take  a  sordid  view  of  a  feast.  We  rested 
until  the  shadow  had  silently  crept  away,  then  began  again  our 
excelsior-journey.  Two  poets  remained,  too  weary  to  proceed 
farther.  The  others  continued  along  the  tortuous  path  The 
hot  sun  sent  down  rays  that  pierced  like  needle  points.  All 
beauty  was  forgotten.  It  was  now  a  fierce  desire  to  stand  on 
the  highest  rock  at  the  top. 

The  chaperon  and  the  blossoms  reached  the  mountain 
road,  then  turned  back  for  water,  quoting  : 

"  The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  world, 
Which  heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end." 


Coatless,  cloakless  and  tired,  the  remaining  three  followed 
the  serpentine  length  of  the  mountain  road.  A  final  short 
cut  was  made  along  a  hard  and  tortuous  path.  The  wind  of 
the  road  nearest  the  top  was  reached  in  an  exhausted  condi 
tion.  We  rested  in  full  view  of  Lake  Lagunitas.  The  cur 
tains  of  the  mountain  were  looped  up,  and  the  hidden  breasts 
of  the  hills  were  exposed.  The  climb  through  the  underbush 
was  undertaken  alone.  The  physical  and  the  sesthetical  waged 
a  war.  The  love  of  beauty  triumphed.  My  hot  thirst  for  wa 
ter  was  abated  by  the  approaching  view  of  the  Pacific.  The 
last  rock  was  scaled.  I  stood  on  the  top  with  arms  out-stretch 
ed  like  a  cross.  Nature  had  lifted  me  above  the  level  ot  vege 
tation,  and  cast  aside  the  drapery  of  its  fog.  Its  soul  was 
clothed  in  the  manhood  of  its  truest  splendor.  Down  the 
mountain  side  was  a  wildness  "  whose  glance  no  civilization 
could  endure."  I  could  see  where  wheat  fields,  groves  and 
orchards  meet  the  waters  of  the  bay,  and  the  little  village,  of 
wild,  romantic  beauty,  hidden  by  the  oak  trees  and  the  willows. 
Just  beyond  the  Golden  Gate,  I  could  see  Sutro  Heights,  with 
its  classic  beauty,  a  land-mark  of  the  endless  waste  beyond. 

There  are  panoramas  of  the  Hudson  and  the  Rhine,  but 
there  are  none  to  equal  the  cycle  of  Tamalpais,  where  the  hu 
man  vision  leaps  from  city  to  city,  from  bay  to  bay,  from  vil 
lage  to  village,  from  lake  to  lake,  from  river  to  river,  from  hill 
to  hill,  from  ocean  to  infinite  space. 

arr  Wanner. 


Up  and  Doum. 


!'  to  Mt.  Tamalpais- 

^ttHI    Up  to  the  land  of  tamales 

9y 

Went  we  in  the  morning  sun, 

Singing  and  laughing  and  glad. 

I  )own  from  Mt.  Tamalpais — 
Down  from  the  land  of  tamales 
Came  we  when  the  cay  was  dorc, 
Tired  and  thirsty  and  mad. 


No  Poet. 


A  Sordid   View. 


San   Rafael. 


v CROOKED  at  in  the  light  of  every  day  prose  Tarn- 
alpais  is  a  mountain  twenty-five  hundred  feet  in 
height,  rising  among  the  Coast  Range,  directly 
across  the  Golden  Gate  from  the  San  Francisco 
peninsula,  and  at  its  foot  nestles  the  little  town  of 
Its  situation  is  such  that  it  is  a  prominent  land 
mark  for  miles  around,  being  distinctly  visible  from  almost 
every  point — Berkeley,  Rincon  Hill  and  clear  around  to  Sutro 
Heights. 

The  strange  fissure  upon  the  side  of  its  peculiar  dark  form 
makes  it  a  familiar  object,  and  is  of  late  origin,  having  been 
caused  about  twelve  years  ago  by  a  cloud-burst  during  a  storm. 
It  tore  up  the  earth  and  rocks  with  such  force  as  to  leave  a 
deep  river-bed,  as  marks  of  its  mad  career  down  the  mountain 
side. 

Tamalpais  is  a  favorite  camping-ground  for  our  scientists,  one 
of  the  most  prominent  of  whom  spent  a  year  upon  its  peak,  as 


long  ago  as  1859,  while  another  has  botanized  in  its  locality  for 
the  past  seventeen  years.  At  one  time  while  the  claims  of  the 
mountain  were  being  considered  by  the  Government  for  the 
erecting  of  a  Signal  Station  at  great  expense,  a  remarkable  road 
was  built  from  foot  to  summit,  in  a  series  of  serpentine  curves, 
making  it  twenty  miles  in  length.  The  station  was  finally  built 
elsewhere,  but  the  road  has  become  a  source  of  great  pleasure 
to  picnic  parties,  who  thus  are  enabled  to  reach  the  summit  in 
easy  fashion.  More  arduous  is  the  direct  path  straight  up  the 
steep  declivity  through  the  chaparral— a  distance  of  about  four 
miles,  the  route  chosen  by  those  who  wish  to  indulge  in 
heroics.  While  the  land  all  around  this  part  of  the  mountain 
is  exceedingly  valuable,  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  view  ha?  any 
value  attached  to  it  whatever,  and  yet  it  is  the  chief  object  of 
admiration,  and  the  chief  cause  of  the  pilgrimage  up  the  moun 
tain  side  year  after  yean 

Theodore  Wilson 


San  Rafael. 


AMALPA1S  shadows  the  lovely  suburban  city  of 
San  Rafael.  Beautiful  homes  have  been  built 
on  its  slopes,  and  a  wagon  road  leads  from  the 
village  to  the  top  of  the  mountain.  San  Rafael 
has  become  noted  as  a  place  of  residence  for  the 
refined  and  cultured.  Tourists  from  the  East  and  continental 
countries  often  fall  in  with  the  witchery  of  the  place,  and  take 
permanent  residence  either  in  a  wooded  vale  or  on  a  sloping 
hill. 

W.  T.  Coleman  was  the  first  to  appreciate  the  wonderful  cli 
mate  and  scenery.     He  built  an  elegant  residence;  surrounded 


it  with  flower  embroidered  walks,  acacian  bowers  and  natural 
adornments  of  all  kinds.  He  has  resided  in  his  suburban 
home  for  a  number  of  years.  The  climate  of  San  Rafael  is 
milder  than  that  of  Oakland  or  Alameda,  and  is  unsurpassed  in 
this  or  any  State. 

It  is  the  ideal  spot  for  the  poet,  the  well-to-do  merchant,  the 
artist  and  the  man  of  leisure.  In  a  few  years  the  hills  and 
valleys  will  be  thickly  populated.  And  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers  rises  from  the  gardens  and  lawns,  and  mingles  with  the 
zephyrs  from  the  ocean  and  the  wine  laden  winds  of  the 
mountain. 

H.  jr. 


Legend  of  Mount   Tamalpais. 


HEN  the  war  was  waged  in  heaven, 

The  sound  of  its  woe  and  dearth, 
Came  down  through  vasty  spaces 

To  the  listening  gods  on  earth  ; 
And  the  gods  held  solemn  council, 

And  they  sent  one  strong  and  bold, 
To  search  for  the  troubled  heaven — 

The  heaven  propheWold, 
And  build  a  mountain  tower, 
A  sentinel  guardian  tower 

By  the  side  of  its  gate  of  gold. 

"  You  will  know  it,"  spoke  the  Chiefest, 
"  By  its  harbor,  faith-foretold, 
And  the  wonder  world  of  beauty 

You  will  see  through  its  gate  of  gold." 


The  god  went  searching,  searching, 

Till  he  saw  on  the  Western  shore 

A  rift  in  the  wall  of  ocean — 

A  wonderful  opening  door — 

And  a  rippling,  glistening  harbor, 

A  restful    sheltered  harbor, 

Shut  out  from  the  ocean's  roar. 

He  saw  the  green  of  the  valleys, 

And  the  gold  the  poppies  claim, 
And  the  hills  the  sunset  hallowed 

With  its  amethyst  and  flame, 
And  the  snowy  throned  Sierras 

Where  the  heads  of  the  waters  wait — 
And  he  built  his  tower  in  the  ocean, 

By  the  side  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

Madge  Morris. 


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FLOATING  AT  THE  FOOT  OF  MOUNT  TAMALP 


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